


Paris Is Indeed Splendid

by ChibiWitch



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: England - Freeform, FrUK, France - Freeform, Hetalia, M/M, Paris (City)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-06
Updated: 2019-02-06
Packaged: 2019-10-05 04:01:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 4,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17317709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChibiWitch/pseuds/ChibiWitch
Summary: Arthur goes to Paris for business.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I think this is my first ever FrUK fanfic so why not let you guys read it? Hope you enjoy it!

Spring usually brought a fresh breeze along with its blossoms, but for Arthur the season brought yet another boring meeting. Trade was always a bit of a sore subject with the introverted Brit. Trade, negotiations, reluctant agreements. Human interaction. Ugh. Arthur had never been too great with that. He didn’t feel like improving that any time soon.

But anyway, business was business.

Rubbing the last of the sleep from his fatigued eyes, he drew his attention to his phone, flicking through email after email. Francis Bonnefoy. All of them from this same sender. Nothing but constant pleas for negotiations since England’s decision to Brexit. Yet another sore subject…

Both these troubling thoughts and the constantly whining brat opposite him were causing the rapid formation of splitting pain in his temples. The boy’s mother sat directly beside him, too busy tapping hurriedly away on her laptop to discipline the squawking infant. She didn’t even spare him a glance when he continued to kick Arthur’s shins, evil grin spread across his face, matching the sticky smudges of chocolate. Great. Not only did he have to suffer this ludicrous train journey but now he would have to suffer a headache. He even made the mistake of leaving his pills at home. Damn it all. The sooner he got home the better.

The sudden voice over the tannoy announcing their arrival in France sent a wave of relief through him. Gripping his bag in one hand and tracing his hands through his blonde bombshell hair with the other, he stood up, stretched and strode through the smooth, automatic doors of the train. Finally…


	2. Chapter 2

“Bloody typical…” 

The Brit couldn’t help the curse that escaped his lips; the same lips that were now bruised from his nervous habit. The more time he had to wait, the more he chewed his lips, slowly peeling off the dead skin, punishing himself for the negative thoughts that raced through his mind. What if he had the wrong address? What if Francis was messing with him? 

He didn’t like to be kept waiting: it made him think that he was just an afterthought to people. Maybe it was just his lack of social skills that caused this suspicion. Either way it was an unnecessary inconvenience. He hadn’t travelled all of this way just to be stuck at the rendezvous point. 

Once again, he inched the sleeve of his suit up just enough for his watch to peer out at him. The gleaming silver of the watch hands seemed to lock around his throat, pressing tighter into his flesh the more time passed. Tick. Tick. Tick. The persistent noise was triggering his headache again, ricocheting off of the walls of his mind. He couldn’t stand it any longer, couldn’t stand this crazy, fear filled experience. It was excessive today. Why was that?

Gently, he ran his hands through his hair, as if brushing the knots of anxious thoughts from his blonde locks. Fuck it. Why not actually see Paris for once? He had the time to kill after all. If his business plans weren’t being dealt with, then he may as well not squander his visit.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gosh I really apologise at how short these chapters are... 
> 
> Hoping this is an enjoyable read nonetheless!

Surprisingly, Arthur was finding himself genuinely smiling... 

Despite his expected hatred for everything in France’s capital, his heart had been captured by the finesse and beauty that Paris possessed. The aromas, the sunlight painting the elegant buildings sprinkled across the map, the culture and, although he hated to admit it, the food… now that was something else.   
With one hand grasping his crêpe and the other resting in his pocket, he strolled towards the thing that he had secretly longed to see up close since its construction; the Eiffel Tower. 

It wasn’t so crowded today, thankfully. Usually when he had dared to venture to this spot it had been plagued with people; littered by lovers. Lovers. They seemed to be everywhere. The thought of it made his eyes roll: he guessed that was typical of the country of love.

Still, he couldn’t help feeling a small pang of jealously. Sure, picnics by beautiful monuments are cliché, but he kind of liked cliché. Fat chance though. 

Gradually, he came to a stop, right in front of the colossal tower. Arthur couldn’t deny it, it was quite the sight. Glittering metallic beams carefully embroidered like a cross stitch pattern stretching far into the heavens. He shut his eyes as if blinded by the sheer perfection. It was almost unfair how stunning it was. In comparison to the monuments at his place, these stood immensely tall: proud giants. He folded his arms, progressively becoming more irritated at the sheer size. It didn’t need to be this big. Was this just France showing off?

“It’s too big!” He scoffed. 

“Oui. My monument is bigger than yours.” 

Arthur froze. That voice. That damn voice. The sharpness of his snide remark forced the Brit's eyes open, as if he had been slapped. He dared to glance at the man who had spoken, who he had almost forgotten he had waited for all of this time. Only a quick glance. If he looked any longer he knew they would lock eyes and that would be the end of the calm façade he had been putting together sightseeing. His cheeks already betrayed him just thinking of how his heart would flutter upon staring into those familiar blue eyes… 

“I don’t remember agreeing to meet here mon ami.” 

“I don’t remember you saying you were going to be late!” Arthur snapped.

Francis sighed, shifting his gaze from the angry Brit to his polished shoes. He didn’t mean to be so late: he spent so long carefully selecting the right suit that would be sure to impress Arthur. Then the traffic was crazy… He knew perfectly well though that these excuses were pointless: they were just tools to help shift the blame so that awful pain in his chest would go away. 

“There’s a restaurant…” He started, finally gazing at the Brit with puppy dog eyes, “I would like to treat you to a meal mon ami… as an apology…”

Arms folded, Arthur simply stared, green eyes piercing into his, making the pang of guilt harder to ignore. 

“You wanted to talk business right? Where better to do business then at dinner?”

Arthur’s eyes flickered from the Tower to the other blonde, mind as indecisive as his heart, the unsteady beats interrupting each thought. 

“Fine.”

A smile danced across the French man’s face.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Excuse my French...

Romantic music filled the empty space where conversation should be. The two sat awkwardly at the table, the first furrowing his brows over the sheer luxury that the menu offered, the second staring at the first. 

“I can’t understand a bloody thing…” Arthur muttered.

A sly smile snaked across his lips as he watched the Brit struggle with his menu. 

“Would you like any help?”

“Bugger off! Like I would ever ask for your help!”

Not even with this sharp remark did Francis’ grin falter. It was amusing to watch him get so worked up over something so little, almost as if he was being prodded with a stick.

“Well you know Arthur, I speak French.”

“Really?” 

The sarcasm in his voice only provoked a gentle laughter from Francis, which, of course, only motivated the further furrowing of Arthur’s absurd brows. 

“I can order for you? Trust me, you will love it mon petit anglais.” Francis offered with a wink.

“Fine.”

Arthur discarded the menu with haste— he was sick of how slowly things seemed to be moving. The sand was trickling grain by grain through the hourglass and with each cascading speck came an annoying echo. He was here to talk business goddamn it! Not sit here being gawped at in some fancy restaurant. Say something. Bring up trade ideas. Anything.

“So about trade—“

“Pourrions-nous avoir mes amuses-bouches habituels, votre bœuf exquis et une bouteille de grand crû pour le diner monsieur?” (Could we have my usual starters, two of the beef, and a bottle of your finest wine?)

“Monsieur célèbre une occasion spéciale?” (A special occasion sir?)

“Pardon?"

“Vous celebrez quelque chose avec votre amant?” (You and your lover are celebrating?)

“Amant?” (Lover?) Francis raised a perfectly arched eyebrow and looked towards his British companion who seemed to be scanning each corner of the room. Maybe he was planning to escape, “Nous verrons bien…” (we’ll see…)

“Bonne chance!” (Good luck!)

With this, the waiter freed the table of the menus and departed, leaving the two men to their awkward silence once again.

Something about this exchange between the waiter and Francis painted Arthur’s cheeks with a rosy hue. The elegance of his native language, the candlelight, the way he was being watched: it provoked a batch of butterflies in his stomach that he couldn’t seem to simply think away. He didn’t even know what they had said. Not that it mattered. He would never admit it but the mere melody of the language of love made him melt. 

He had to concentrate now: this was a business meeting. A business meeting…

“Francis we really should talk about business.”

“Hmm?”

“Y’know… the changes we need to make for Brexit…”

Francis remained fixed to the spot for a brief moment. Then, taking a deep breath he rummaged through the bag, previously abandoned by the table leg.

“Here,” He produced the pack he had been looking for and passed it across the table to the Brit, “This has all the documents you need; ideas from my boss, current agreements, past arrangements. I’ve left nothing out, I promise you mon ami.”

Arthur leafed through the paperwork:

“Bloody hell Francis… I can’t believe you’re so organised for once!”

“It’s my top priority at the moment...”

Silence.

“Do you have to leave?” 

“Yes. Even if I don’t want to…” 

Arthur stared down at his empty plate. Oh how he begged for their order to arrive. Anything to distract him: already he was fiddling with the napkin. He still had no idea what he was eating considering everything had been left in the hands of the native. Really it didn’t matter that he was oblivious. He kind of wished he was oblivious to everything at the moment. What would it be like now he wouldn’t be bombarded with constant streams of EU meetings? Now he wouldn’t see Francis as often… Thinking about it made his heart sink, as if drowning in the channel, never to emerge from those murky waters.

He bit his lip hard, biting back tears that begged to spill from his eyes. He hadn’t cried in years; why now?

Shit. Too late.

Already the waiter had returned, swiftly placing plates filled with high quality food with practised hands. 

"Bonne dégustation!"

Then he was gone. Like a professional sprinter, he had left much like he arrived: too fast for either of the men at the table to comprehend. 

Francis wore a pained expression on his face: he hadn’t expected to see such a sturdy and serious man to just crumble in front of him. Gently, he let his hands take over, his thumb wiping away his cascading tears.

“Hey. Come on, we’ll work this out. It’s not like we’ll never get to see each other again.”

Francis cracked a weak smile, a façade hiding his distress. 

“Who said I was going to miss you? I'm just upset I'm being forced to eat your food. Stupid Frog…” 

His mask was replaced with genuine happiness upon hearing his usual nickname. He removed his hand from Arthur’s now flushed cheeks and seized his fork.

“Eat. I’m paying a fortune for this.”

“Ok.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry if I've gotten Paris all wrong, I've never been...

The remainder of the evening passed like a dream. The music, the meals, the men. Each was filled with pure bliss. Love bursting like invisible fireworks across the dark blanket of sky. Fourth glass of Château la Perrière resting in his hand, Arthur gazed out at les Champs de Mars bathed in beams of orange. Gradually the heat of the room was becoming suffocating, so much so that it was engulfing the drunk Brit within mere minutes.

“Blimey it’s hot in here…” Arthur stripped himself of his suit jacket, draping it clumsily over the back of his chair before loosening his tie. Hiccuping a little, he lent across the table resting his chin on his rough, calloused hands. He stared deeply into his companion’s eyes. They were gorgeous: a breath-taking blue, dragging him back to the memories of the ocean waves where he had spent his youth. The sea was where his soul swam.

Francis giggled awkwardly and tried to break contact with his gaze by diverting to different parts of the Brit’s face: his nose, his lips, and finally those outrageous brows. No matter how hard he tried to distract himself, he still flicked back to those powerful eyes. Arthur had never been this close before… only at this proximity could he appreciate the features he had ignored before. They were interesting up close. No. He was interesting up close, even if he was somewhat intoxicated.

“You know…” Arthur began, “You’re far too pretty for a man…”

Francis chuckled as Arthur took another large sip from his wine glass.

“Is that your attempt at a compliment mon cher?”

“No… why would I compliment you?”

His insult was betrayed by a smile and his words were slurred but it didn’t stop him from drinking. One sip then another. Unlike Francis, he downed his wine like water- quickly, as if racing to quench his thirst. Having drank at this rate the entire evening, his state was of no surprise. Especially with the strength of a good French wine.

“You should really _taste_ the wine…” Francis said.

“I am _tasting_ the wine!”

As he spoke he motioned with his glass. A tad over keen, he lost coordination and time seemed to go in slow motion as the wine cascaded down his shirt and the insulting burn of embarrassment stung his face. Struggling to regain his composure as his pride lay in tatters, he dabbed himself down with a serviette. No use.

“Erm…” He rushed up from his seat, “Would you excuse me, I’ve got to visit the gents…”

Before Francis could utter a word, Arthur bolted off in the direction of the toilets, dragging his jacket off of his chair.


	6. Chapter 6

“Fuck.”

No matter what Arthur tried the stain just refused to disappear. Not even slightly. 

“My new fucking shirt…” 

Terminating the torrents of water, he grabbed the edge of the sink to keep himself steady. Both the alcohol and his nerves were throwing him off balance, making him wobble and shake. His accident kept replaying in his mind, as if he was stuck in the worst possible time loop, forced to relive his embarrassment over and over. He could kick himself: it was going so well. They had been talking, like they did years ago, He missed that. Badly. Surprise surprise, he had to be the one to go and cock it up. 

Good job he had at least thought of a backup plan. With clumsy hands he slid his jacket on and tried buttoning it up. It hid most of the awful, now smudged stain, but not quite all of it. Still, it was better than nothing, or rather it would have been better than nothing if he hadn’t accidentally mixed up the buttons… 

Disappointed, but not defeated, Arthur squinted into the mirror, fiddling with the buttons. It took a good deal of concentration (and a good deal of unnecessary minutes), until he had finally conquered his clothing. It had been such a mission for the Brit that he had almost forgotten about his reason for doing so in the first place. Nevertheless, he was ready.


	7. Chapter 7

“Sorry about that…”

Arthur took his seat once again at the table, instinctively reaching for the glass that remained on it, despite its contents being on his front rather than in the glass. Francis moved it away before any more damage could be done.

He smiled.

“I think it’s about time we headed home.”

With that he called over the waiter. It was far easier to grab his attention now: it was emptier in these late hours, lightening his load drastically in comparison to the bustling lunch time services. Swiftly, the check was brought over and Francis insisted on paying the full amount. It was an apology after all. It didn’t matter how much Arthur protested, he wouldn’t be paying even a centime.

“ _Bonne nuit messieurs_!” (good night gentlemen!) The waiter called.

At the door, Francis waved, returning the parting wish whilst leading Arthur by the arm (or rather: dragging him).

Before Arthur’s drunken mind had processed this event, they were walking the streets of Paris. The darkened paths were dimly lit with sprinkles of amber and yellow from the towering streetlamps above.

Suddenly, Arthur stopped.

Having thus brought Francis to a halt, he waited eagerly in the sweet silence of the night.

“Oh fuck.”

“What? Did you leave something back at the restaurant?”

“No.” He paused for a bit, “Francis, what time is it?”

Francis showed him his phone screen for clarification. He had neglected his watch today: too flashy for his outfit. The phone showed the time to be around 11pm. From the troubling look that was spreading across his friend’s face, he could tell that was a bad sign.

“I think I’ve missed my train…”

Francis grinned.

“You could stay at my home until tomorrow morning if you’d like? It would save you from paying for a hotel.”

“Stay? Bugger off. You’d try something funny…” Arthur eyed him suspiciously.

“I promise I won’t. Call me old fashioned but I don’t try things with drunk p—”

“I’m not drunk!”

“Oh oui my lord! And I’m a sexy Spanish senorita who’s looking for a job as your servant! Hence all of the hard work!”

This crazy remark even managed to crack the severe exterior of the Brit. Both men laughed as they continued their night time stroll, one still leading the other, now by the hand. It wasn’t long before they had reached the elegant front door of Francis’ apartment.

“Francis…”

“Hmm?”

“We’re holding hands…” Arthur stared wide eyed at their entwined fingers, swaying a little as he tried to focus on staying put.

“You promised you wouldn’t try anything…”

“It’s just to keep you from falling over.” Francis said. Yet another smile painted his face as he fumbled for his keys in the dark, but this time it wasn’t very convincing. Arthur had known him for years, there was no way he would be fooled so easily.


	8. Chapter 8

“The bed or the sofa—it’s your choice.”

Arthur grimaced. 

“Just choose.”

Without uttering any words, Arthur shed his jacket and threw himself on the sofa. He grumbled a little as he tried to get into a comfortable position.

“You could at least remove your shoes in my home…” 

Francis sighed as he picked up the discarded jacket. Another low grumble left the gentleman as he clumsily kicked off his shoes. 

“If you strip anything else off you might tempt me.” Francis said.

“Behave...”

“It’s a joke mon ami…”

Rolling his eyes, Francis left the living room to prepare for bed. There was no use trying to offer Arthur even a glass of water in his current state: clearly he just wanted to sleep.

Maybe that was for the best. 

Contrary to the day time hours, it never took long for Francis to complete his night time routine: a quick change out of his stiff suit and the expected hygiene routines were carried out in a matter of minutes, even when he was held back by a brief panic over a mistaken blemish.   
He returned to the living room to check up on his friend; make sure he hadn’t managed to choke himself on his tie or something stupid. Thankfully this wasn’t the case. When Francis returned, he was greeted by an unconscious young man, who in his drunken stupor had passed out and promptly started up a snoring fit that didn't seem to befit a man of his slight stature. 

“How attractive…” 

With another roll of his eyes, Francis slipped his hand under Arthur’s head, gently lifting it so he could place it more comfortably on the plush pillows he had brought from his room. As a finishing touch, he draped him in a luxuriant blanket. Perfect. Now he was bound to be comfortable. He looked so innocent wrapped up like that. Nothing but snoring broken by the occasional mumbling. If only he was always like this, maybe Francis would be able to say more to him. Maybe if he was like this all of the time Francis could reveal how he truly felt without risking a searing insult. Arthur had surprisingly soft hair too, what was he using for that? He’d ask tomorrow.

“Bonne nuit mon petit anglais.”

He hesitated for a moment, debating whether or not he'd regret this choice— why not? He was asleep after all. Gently he leaned down, brushing a stray lock of hair off of Arthur's forehead, and planted a butterfly-soft kiss. To his relief the drunkard's brow seemed to relax. Francis checked once more to make sure he was comfy, popped a glass of water on the coffee table and headed upstairs to his own bed.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cringey moment with a cat, French cuisine blahblahblah

To Arthur’s surprise he awoke to find the softest snow white cat perched on his chest. Sound asleep, just as he had been yet moments before he was woken by a gentle melody and the gorgeous aroma of breakfast. As tempted as he was to get up and discover the source, he couldn’t help but fawn over the cat. Gushing over the adorable creature, he ran his slender fingers through its long fur.

“Jesus...so soft…”

Then he scratched its chin, listening to the sweet rumbling purr that followed. The paws were next. No cat lover could resist playing with those perfect pink paws. He giggled like a child as he held the cat at arm’s length above him, as if brandishing a trophy. Covering its nose in kisses, he listened to the singing growing ever louder from the kitchen:

_…mais boum!_

_Quand notre cœur fait boum_

_Tout avec lui dit boum_

_Et c'est l'amour qui s'éveille_

_Boum!_

_Il chante "Love in Bloom"_

_Au rythme de ce boum_

_Qui redit boum à l'oreille_

The sound of Francis singing his heartfelt classics make something stir in his chest. He hadn’t heard him sing in so long. He almost forgot how much of an angelic voice he had. Once Francis’ creativity in the kitchen had ceased so had his melodic voice. He became suddenly aware of the absence of his companion’s raucous snores and realised it would be best to keep his music to a minimum. He didn’t want to worsen Arthur’s certain headache. He stepped into the living room, leading with the freshly prepared crêpes piled on a plate.

“I didn’t think you would be awake already.”

“Yet you made me breakfast? How touching!”

Francis rolled his eyes.

“How are you feeling?” He asked.

“Well my head is banging like a shithouse door in a gale… but I’ll survive I guess.”

For a few seconds there was an awkward silence. Francis simply stared at Arthur, who reciprocated his actions, albeit with a contorted brow.

“That song… what was it about?”

“You heard me?”

“So what if I did? You still haven’t answered my question!”

Francis grinned.

“It’s about how we see the world… more specifically when we’re in love how this changes… It’s hard to explain to you. I guess you wouldn’t understand…”

“Believe it or not, I’ve been in love before Francis,” Arthur said, “I may be British but I still have feelings.”

“Désolé.”

Arthur just sighed deeply.

“It’s fine. You’re forgiven.”

With this, Arthur propped himself up, dragging the plate of crêpes towards him. By now they had cooled a little, but he was certain it wouldn’t degrade the taste. After all, usually he dealt with charred crumpets for a breakfast, slathered with butter. It was such a relieve to be finally enjoying a meal.

“I can’t believe you’ve actually been in love before, I’ve always imagined you as a lonely old man with 50 cats—”

“—Oi! There’s no need to be rude!” Arthur said, gesturing with his fork, “Besides, who’s to say I’m not still in love…” He added in a tone barely above a whisper. His eyes fixed to the elegant patterning on the plate for a little while. Hopefully Francis hadn’t heard that. How stupid, could he still not stop that awful automatic link between mind and mouth? Once again he dug his fork into the crêpe, choosing to focus on food.

“You never cease to surprise me Monsieur Kirkland.”

Arthur frowned.

“So what is she like?” Francis said, hugging his knees by the sofa.

“He’s… kinda hard to describe actually. A bit of an entity…”

“He? Ok. Why?”

“Why he?”

“No of course not that! Why is he an entity?”

“Oh. Well he stuns me because he has this elegance about him but sometimes he can be the biggest twat…” Arthur shovelled another forkful of crêpe into his mouth.

“Why?”

“He’s just a bit annoying sometimes. Probably not even his fault. Maybe he was born a bit of a twat. Who knows?”

“What does he look like?”

“Pardon?”

“You said he was an incredible beauty?”

“Not quite what I said mate but sure, I guess that’s true too. I remember back when we first met, I was really young so things were confusing for me. I was dealing with a lot of new and tough things and every now and then he would suddenly be there. I used to think, ‘wow, he looks like an angel’. ‘What is an angel doing here?’”

Francis grinned, blue eyes glittering as they fixed to the Brit's profile.

“An angel, huh?”

“Did I say that? Ignore that!”

“It doesn’t matter Arthur. I find it interesting how you see him so highly. To regard someone as a higher being… that’s a strong love you are feeling _mon ami_.”

“Really?”

Francis nodded.

“He’s lucky, to have someone love him so much…”

Arthur ignored Francis’ comment for a while, lost in thought. He would never date Arthur. He wouldn’t risk his precious heart for someone so drab. Francis was right, his crush was lucky: lucky that he would never know.

It didn’t take long for the steely silence between the two of them for Francis to realise he might have struck a nerve. He didn’t like that hurt look.

“Arthur…”

“What is it frog? I feel like I’m in a bloody interrogation…”

“Does he love you?”

“How the bloody hell would I know that?” He snapped. “If he did it would be a miracle… he’s leagues away from me…”

“Nonsense!”

"’Scuse me?”

“Nonsense! I mean I can see a couple of things that would initially put someone off…” Francis tailed off, gaze shifting to a pair of insanely thick brows.

“Piss off!” He stifled a giggle.

“Seriously, there’s a chance he may be just as worried as you are.”

“I doubt it. That man has enough confidence for an entire population.”

“Maybe on the outside.”

Arthur paused, eyeing Francis suspiciously. Had he given away too much? Why was he even sharing so much? Why were those infuriating butterflies back?

“Maybe he’s been waiting for someone to dig a bit deeper then what’s on the outside…”

Arthur cocked his head.

“Are you ok?”

“Arthur.”

“Yes?”

“Close your eyes.”

“Why?”

“Please. For me. I think I’ve worked it out.”

He obeyed, eyelids flickering shut. Francis lingered for a moment, held back once again by hesitation: was he right? What if he wasn’t? Was this too much of a risk? The more he studied Arthur’s impatient expression, the more his nerves settled. The way his eyebrows hinted at confusion, his feathery lashes, lightly freckled nose and inviting lips. Where they smooth? Like the rose petals that grew in the gardens he so adored? Or rough like the harsh British winters just passed?

Francis leaned towards him, their faces so close the tips of their noses almost brushed. Come on. If the most romantic man on the planet couldn’t do just this, what a disgrace he would be! Mere talk! He couldn’t have that. Needing no further persuasion, he captured Arthur’s lips in a tender kiss.

Arthur’s breath hitched slightly, caught off guard by the Frenchman’s sudden kiss. It was in a sweet, innocent way that he captured his lips, thumb caressing a flushed cheek. Filled with the love he had craved for decades, it was no surprise at all that such a kiss was rapidly reciprocated. Francis couldn't help the smile that crept across his lips.

After stretched out seconds they broke apart, one gentleman’s eyes still clamped shut in fear that he would wake up. Alone. Disappointed. As always pining for the man he couldn’t have.

“Arthur…?”

The gentle near whispering of his name caused his eyes to dare to open, slowly but surely to admire the man inches from him.

“It’s me isn’t it?” Francis said.

Arthur said nothing, still overwhelmed, before something took over. Delicately, he pulled Francis into a tight hug, head placed against his chest. He felt rather vulnerable like this, Francis so close to his heart. His pulse quickened, racing with nerves, excitement, embarrassment. A concoction of feelings.

“Of course it’s you.” He said. “Please kiss me again.” 


End file.
